


A Love Song of Sorts

by unpopcultural



Series: This Thing of Darkness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And I mean slow. It's like a snail catching on fire., Angst, Copious amounts of tea, Don't worry; John and Sherlock won't die, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Series 3 compliant, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Things are hotting up!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 19,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpopcultural/pseuds/unpopcultural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re different now,” she said simply. “What has happened to you, Sherlock Holmes?”</p><p>“Death will do that to a person."</p><p>“You forget that I know that as well as you do. We seem to run with a crowd of phoenixes, don’t we? First me, then you, then… well.” Irene cleared her throat and looked into her tea. “Before you arrived, I took a glance round the place. Where’s John Watson living these days?”</p><p>Sherlock coughed. “He’s… married.”</p><p>Her eyebrows lifted. “Ah.” As if that meant something.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/>What happens after Sherlock gets off the plane at the end of Series Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening is spread out against the sky  


-T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

 

Sherlock was still shaking when he got out of the cab and stumbled up the steps to 221B. He dropped his jacket on the way up the stairs because it still smelled like John’s cologne and he couldn't think about that right now. Just a few hours prior, he’d been aboard a plane to his death, but even then his mind had not felt as muddled as it did now. It was quite disturbing. Sherlock Holmes was not used to having his mind muddled.

 Sherlock _was_ cognizant enough to notice that something was off after he slammed the flat door behind him. Everything was where he’d left it; he hadn't bothered packing much for the trip, but there was a peculiar yet recognizable smell in the air. It was sweet and heady, like a perfume—

“The Woman,” Sherlock whispered.

His eyes darted around the flat and finally found their target sitting at the kitchen table. Irene Adler had apparently made a cup of tea for herself, and was stirring it with a small smile on her face, eyes locked on Sherlock’s. She wore a green dress that, while modest, clung to her body.

“Good evening,” she said. Her nails were painted white, and she continued to stir the tea as Sherlock frowned at her.

“Aren't you worried about being found, Ms. Adler?” he finally said, taking a seat opposite her at the table.

“Well, isn't that a way to greet an old friend,” she said, a smile curving her scarlet lips. “Listen, Sherlock, I’m sure you’re as aware as I am that a certain someone has been broadcast on every television in the country for the past two hours."

 “And what do you know about that?”

Sherlock tried to conceal the tremor that still shook his hands, but Irene noticed. She cocked her head and stared at Sherlock for a moment, taking a sip of her tea.

“You’re different now,” she said simply. “What has happened to you, Sherlock Holmes?”

 “Death will do that to a person."

“You forget that I know that as well as you do. We seem to run with a crowd of phoenixes, don’t we? First me, then you, then… well.” Irene cleared her throat and looked into her tea. “Before you arrived, I took a glance round the place. Where’s John Watson living these days?”

Sherlock coughed. “He’s… married.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Ah.” As if that meant something.

“If you don’t _mind_ , will you please tell me why you’re here and then kindly leave?” Sherlock stood and crossed his arms across his thin torso.

“You know, I always thought there was a… _spark_ between us, Sherlock, but I also knew that nothing would come of it. Would you like to know why?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think you already know.” Irene stood and rested her back against the kitchen counter. “Why have you never told him?”

Sherlock said nothing. His limbs felt heavy and he needed to clear his head, retreat to his mind palace, but this woman was making it impossible.

“Fine,” Irene said. “What I came here to say was that I received this letter a few weeks ago. I've been living in Sweden for the past ten months under the name Clarissa Dowe, but somehow, this letter arrived for me with my real name on it.”

She had retrieved an envelope from her handbag while speaking, and handed it to Sherlock.

Both of them turned when they heard knocking from the stairwell.

"I’d best be off,” Irene said with a nod. “It was nice seeing you again. Give me a call if you’re ever in need of anything.” She winked and disappeared into Sherlock’s bedroom, presumably to exit via the window again. He hoped her intention was not to wait there with her riding crop in hand.

The knocking got louder.

 “Sherlock, are you there?”

John.

Sherlock swore under his breath and stalked to the door, flinging it open.

John took a startled step backward. His hair was mussed and he looked exhausted, and something warm welled up inside Sherlock’s chest. Then Sherlock saw Mary standing behind John, still wearing her red coat over her protuberant belly, and the warm feeling dissolved into a sharp pain in his chest. She was holding the jacket that he had discarded on the stairs, and held it out to him. Sherlock took it and slipped it on without explanation.

           

_Sherlock disembarked from the plane, eyes immediately seeking John, whose face was one of complete disbelief. Sherlock was about to say something witty, biting, but before he could open his mouth, John enveloped him in a hug that squeezed the air from Sherlock’s lungs._

_They’d hugged at the wedding, but not like this, not with John’s head in the crook of his neck and his hands grasped in the fabric on Sherlock’s back._

_Never bloody leave again,” John said, his voice trembling._

_Sherlock couldn’t speak, even when he felt teary dampness on his neck. Even when John released him. Even when discomfort slowly spread across John’s face as he realized how intimate their embrace had been. Even when Mary warily stepped toward them and hugged Sherlock herself, her belly round between them. Even when Mycroft began speaking about the television broadcast, throwing out nonsense words like “Moriarty.” Even when Sherlock stumbled into a cab and returned home, unaware of what his brother had even said. Even…_


	2. Irene Adler's Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contents of Irene's letter.

_Dearest Irene (and I do mean Dearest),_

_Let me tell you a story that I heard as a child._

_Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince who had a servant named Irina, a woman he had saved from working as a homeless beggar. Irina wasn't your normal everyday servant, no. She was special. The prince knew that he could count on Irina for anything. After all, without the prince's help, Irina would have had no home._

_The two were inseparable. The prince hated talking to the villagers about their mundane little problems, so he had Irina chase them away from the castle disguised as a witch. She would wear a horrible mask and a black robe. Everyone was afraid of her, and they began to tell stories about the witch that lived near the castle._

_"This way, they'll never come talk to me," said the prince._

_The two lived happily this way for some time, but one day, a king of a neighboring kingdom had the prince kidnapped. Everybody in the village was devastated, for the prince had been a just and kind man. The prince's aging mother sent her bravest knights to rescue her son, but it was fruitless. After a year, all of the prince's "loyal" subjects believed that the poor prince was dead. Only Irina believed that the prince lived on._

_And the prince_ was _alive, but in captivity. He was imprisoned within the castle of his kidnapper. The king, a cruel and teasing man, made a bet with the prince: "I bet that I can turn Irina's loyalty against you, and make her fall in love with me."_

_"She would never do that," the prince said confidently. "You can make the dogs stop barking and the trees lose their leaves, but you will never stop Irina from being loyal to me. She would never leave the castle for anyone, and I'm sure she knows I'm still alive."_

_The king traveled to the prince's village disguised as a blacksmith. He found Irina working as a lady-in-waiting for the prince's mother._

_"Young maiden," the king said. "I am taken aback by your beauty, and would like to take your hand in marriage. Do you agree?"_

_Irina frowned. "Oh, I could not, sir. I am tied to this castle, and I would never leave it. After all, my prince is still alive, and I am awaiting his return."_

_The king returned to his own castle, unhappy._

_"I will find a way to make her love me yet!" he promised the prince._

_"You can make the dogs stop barking and the trees lose their leaves, but you will never stop Irina from being loyal to me," the prince said again._

_The king returned to the village, this time disguised as a rich merchant._

_"Oh beautiful maiden, please come with me as my wife. I will spoil you with riches beyond your imagination," the king told Irina._

_Irina hesitated this time. "I--I am sorry, sir, but I am awaiting the return of my prince. I mustn't leave this castle."_

_The king returned to his own castle, enraged._

_"This is not over yet!" he screamed. "She will love me!"_

_You can make the dogs stop barking and the trees lose their leaves, but you will never stop Irina from being loyal to me," was the prince's steadfast response._

_The king returned to the village, but this time he wore no disguise. All of the villagers hid in their homes, terrified of the man who had kidnapped and presumably killed their beloved prince._

_The king approached Irina and said, "Dearest woman, please come with me as my wife. I will give you riches, power, and glory beyond your imagination."_

_This was too much for Irina. She readily agreed, and returned to the king's castle as his new wife. The king did not tell her that the prince was still alive, but Irina never asked about her former master. The king and Irina grew fat together, and their cruelty to their subjects was unmatched._

_One day, the prince found that the jail-keeper had forgotten to lock his cell properly. He escaped, stealing the sword of the sleeping guard, and barged into the bedroom of the king and his traitorous wife._

_"It is I, the prince!" he exclaimed. "I am alive, Irina! Please come back with me!"_

_The king began to laugh. "She will never do such a thing."_

_Irina said, laughing, "I am sorry, my prince, but I could never go back to a life with you after having all I've ever wanted here."_

_In a rage, the prince cut off the head of the king, and then stabbed Irina clean through. In her death throes, Irina transformed into what she had been all along-- a witch with an awful face!_

_The prince brought back the heads of his enemies on stakes, and planted them in front of his castle to forever remind the world that he was not to be trifled with._

_He lived happily ever after._

_Did you like the story, Irene? I thought you'd might. Be careful, old friend._

_-JM_


	3. I Grow Old... I Grow Old

I grow old ... I grow old ...  
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

John Watson stood in the middle of the living room, watching as Sherlock played the violin facing the window. Mary had just excused herself to the bathroom, and John had thought that her absence might open Sherlock up, but Sherlock still barely acknowledged John's presence. Ever since John and Mary had entered the flat thirty minutes prior, Sherlock had spent his time alternating between silently and furiously texting and clenching his violin under his chin.

"Sherlock, if you don't tell me what's going on, I will-- I will punch you. In the face. Yeah. I've done it before, haven't I?" John threatened, trying to speak over the music.

With a screechy note, Sherlock finally stopped playing and turned around, raising his eyebrows. "Numerous times, in fact. So many times that I'm probably numb to them now. Nice try, though."

John grunted and clawed his hands through his hair. "Tell me what the hell is going on, Sherlock! Is Moriarty really back? Mycroft seemed to think so. He said that it was either him or someone working for him. Please tell me what you're thinking."

"Is that what Mycroft said?" Sherlock mused. "Sometimes I don't bother paying him any attention. He can be rather boring." Sherlock delicately placed his violin in its case on the table. He didn't meet John's eyes. "I assure you, John, Mycroft and I have this handled. Stop worrying."

John positively glowered. "No, Sherlock, you are not going to get me to leave. This concerns me, too. I'm fucking tired of you acting like I can't handle this. You bloody well know I can handle this." He clenched his fists and took a step toward Sherlock as if to carry out his threat of punching him.

John stopped moving when Sherlock finally looked him in the eyes. How had John never seen the sadness in those eyes before today? He swallowed thickly, hearing the toilet flush. When had they become so old and miserable?

Sherlock spoke quickly and quietly, his pale eyes fluttering over John's face: "John, there are certain things that cannot be reversed, you understand. What if I told you something and it turned your entire life upside down? Is that really what you want to happen? Go home with Mary. I'll let you know if I need your help. Just... just forget about this for now. Let yourself be happy, John. "

"Not without you," John blurted. He quickly added, "I mean, you're my best friend, Sherlock. You're supposed to be able to trust me."

Sherlock's face blanched. He blinked a few times, then, having gathered himself, he closed the gap between them. John began to sweat as Sherlock leaned his head down to John's ear and whispered, "I can't."

"You-- you can't trust me?" John whispered back, his senses overwhelmed with the scent of Sherlock's sweat and shampoo.

They heard footsteps in the kitchen.

"John, I think I need to get some sleep. You coming?" It was Mary, eyeing them cautiously.

"Yeah," John said without looking at her. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock's. "Fine then," he said to Sherlock. "Have fun with Mycroft."

Sherlock picked up his violin and began playing a song that John didn't recognize.

In the cab home, Mary said, "Would you like to get some take out? I'm craving Thai."

John didn't hear her. He was watching his breath fog the window, hiding the darkening streets of London from his view.


	4. Mycroft Holmes's Mobile Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Text messages from the phone of Mycroft Holmes.

_3:51 PM: He is in the air now. -MH_

 

_3:52 PM: Goody goody. I've always wanted to be on TV. ;)_

 

_4:06 PM: What shall I tell him when he lands? -MH_

 

_4:06 PM: Tell him that Moriarty is back!!!! Or whatever you want to tell him. It'll all play out the same. By the way, give my best to "Mary." She'll know what you mean. ;) ;)_

 

_4:08 PM: I will do no such thing. -MH_

 

_6:15 PM: You remember what I want you to do now, right?_

 

_6:20 PM: RIGHT?_

 

_6:21 PM: Indeed. -MH_

 

_6:30 PM: Good. I didn't expect you to grow a conscience all of a sudden now! LOL :D_

 

_6:42 PM: That is the last thing you need to worry about. -MH_

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

_7:01 PM: Sherlock, I need to discuss plans with you. I will be at Baker Street tomorrow morning. -MH_

 

_7:22 PM: Can't. -SH_

 

_7:24 PM: Of course you can. This is a matter of national security. -MH_

 

_7:29 PM: I don't care. -SH_

 

_7:33 PM: I'll be there tomorrow. -MH_

 

 

 


	5. Let Us Go and Make Our Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is here, in all her glory!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be grading papers at the moment, but this is so much more fun. :)

“That is not what I meant at all;  
That is not it, at all.”  
-T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

 

The morning after Sherlock’s return from the plane, Mary sat on the sofa, knitting. She had never had much time for knitting before, as being an assassin did not allow one to enjoy many domestic pursuits. She was attempting to knit a hat for the baby, but it was coming out lopsided, with some parts much looser than others. She sighed and rested the needles on her lap, which was becoming increasingly difficult these days due to her bulging stomach. Tangles of green and yellow yarn twisted around her on the sofa.

John wasn’t home, even though he had the day off. Normally, Mary would have thought that he’d be running around London with Sherlock, but after Sherlock’s treatment of them the previous night, she wasn’t sure where her husband was.

The doorbell rang. Mary groaned, not wanting to stand on her swollen ankles, so she called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Harry.”

Now Mary stood. She and Harry had only met once before, and Harry had been so drunk that Mary was not sure her sister-in-law would even remember her.

Mary opened the door to see John’s mousy-haired sister standing outside. Harry was in her late forties, shorter than John and with a thinner build and narrower features, but she shared her brother’s blue eyes. Although Harry looked far healthier compared to when Mary had seen her last, there was still something haggard about her appearance.

“Mary! Good morning,” Harry said. “I’m sorry to come unexpected like this, but I wanted to talk to John.”

“Well, he’s not home at the moment.” Mary said. “But come in! Please!”

Harry nodded her head toward Mary’s stomach. “Look at you, now! I heard the news, but now it’s really hitting me that I’m gonna be an auntie!”

Mary smiled politely and opened the door further to allow Harry to come in. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be lovely, but in your state I don’t want you doing any more than you have to! If you just tell me where everything is, I’d be happy to make it.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Harry sat in the armchair with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Mary sipped on her tea from the sofa. The conversation was pleasant enough, if a bit awkward, but Mary still hoped John would come home soon. Where was he, anyway?

“It’s been two months since I’ve had a drink,” Harry said after a moment. She pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt up to her elbows and for a moment looked very much the little girl. “I wanted to tell John. That’s why I’m here. Oh, and also because I’m back with Clara! She’s given me a second chance.” Her face was radiant.

It took Mary a moment to remember who Clara was. “Oh! Well that’s wonderful. John will be thrilled.”

“We’re thinking of adopting, you know,” Harry said. “Once I’m sober for long enough, that is. After hearing the news about you and John, it’s just… I realized how much I wanted that for myself, you know? To be a parent. You must be so excited.”

Mary nodded. “Oh, yes, definitely.”

The two lapsed into silence for a few moments, before Mary had the courage to say something.

“May I ask you something, Harry?” Mary asked. The question had been eating at her, but despite what he had said over two years ago, before she had even met John, she wanted to be sure.

“Of course.”

“Do you… Have you ever thought that John might be bisexual?”

Mary was not expecting the deep belly laugh. “My God! John? Bisexual? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week!” Harry paused in her laughter when she noticed Mary’s grimace. “Oh… You’re serious, aren’t you? Whatever gave you that idea, love?”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” Mary flushed.

“It’s that Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?” Harry asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mary muttered. “I’m his wife, anyway. He’ll always put me first. He always has.”

Harry nodded. “John is a loyal man, Mary. If he loves someone, he’ll do anything for that person. And I mean anything. So don’t you worry about a thing, dear.”

“You’re right.” Mary took a large gulp of tea and managed a wide smile. “How would you feel about some lunch?”


	6. Sherlock Holmes's Mobile Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the mobile phone of Sherlock Holmes, the morning after the tarmac scene.

_5:21 AM: Sherlock, Mary is still asleep and I'm coming over. I want to talk to you. -JW_

 

_5:21 AM: Why would it matter that Mary is asleep? She is welcome to visit me at Baker Street anytime. -SH_

 

_5:29 AM: Look, Sherlock, I don't know if you're being sarcastic or what, but I'm coming over and we're going to talk about what happened with the telly. -JW_

 

_5:33 AM: Did it ever occur to you that I may want to sleep?  It is half past five in the morning, after all. -SH_

 

_5:35 AM: Haha. Why don't you do stand-up? Is that why you were a total arsehole last night, eh? Cause it was funny? -JW_

 

_5:36 AM: You're impossible. -JW_

 

_5:39 AM: Leaving the house now... -JW_

 

_5:44 AM: On my way. -JW_

 

_5:45 AM: You'd better be at home when I get there, Sherlock. -JW_

 

_6:22 AM: John, I'm sorry. -SH_

 

_6:26 AM: I'm outside. Can I come in? -JW_

 

 


	7. A Tedious Argument of Insidious Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock confess their love for each other, and they live happily ever after.
> 
> HAH! Not really. Just some more angst. Wizard angst.

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

-T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

 

It only took Sherlock a second to swing the door open with the greeting, “I thought you had a key.”

“Yeah, well,” John said uncomfortably, “I’d hate to, you know, break in. You’re not very nice to criminals. You might throw me out a window.”

To the casual observer, Sherlock’s face was its normal mask, but John noted that the corner of his friend’s mouth twitched up in a smile. John regarded Sherlock as they walked into the flat. The detective was wearing the same clothes as the night before. He had probably fallen asleep in them, if he’d slept at all. Sherlock’s suit jacket was astonishingly wrinkled, as if he had rolled it into a ball at some point and stuffed it down the garbage disposal. Mary had found it lying on the stairs, so who knows what had happened to it after that.

“Mycroft should be here soon,” Sherlock said, flopping down on the sofa.

“Oh. Good. I want to be here for that.”

“So you’ve told me.” Sherlock closed his eyes.

John settled into his usual chair and found himself observing his former flatmate intently. Lately, it had seemed to John that he and Sherlock were developing identical sets of wrinkles and eye bags. Again, John found himself wondering how the hell the two of them had become so old in so short a time. It wasn’t that they had had that many birthdays since meeting, but rather that life had insisted on kicking the living shit out of them at every opportunity. They’d be fucking geriatric before they reached the age of fifty.

 _Them. They_. What was this bullshit? There was no _they_ , not anymore. John had a wife and (good God) a _child_ to consider now. What was he doing here, anyway? He shouldn’t be out trying to solve crimes with Sherlock. He should be—

John imagined sitting on the couch watching mind-rotting television with his pregnant wife, and a dull throb pounded in his stomach.

“You came here to talk,” Sherlock suddenly drawled, eyes still closed. “So talk. Or were you waiting for my brother to make an appearance?”

John sighed. “All right, then. Why were you such a git to Mary and me last night? You just killed a man for Mary; I thought you’d be a little warmer toward her.”

“I said sorry, John. And in your texts, you seemed to assume I disliked her.”

“Only because of how you were acting yesterday!”

Sherlock peered across the room at him. “I would have thought that after so many years, you’d have realized that I am an insufferable person who cares little for others.”

“No, Sherlock, not with me. You can’t pull this sociopath shtick anymore with me,” John warned.

Sherlock sat up slowly, looking as surprised as Sherlock ever could, and pulled his knees to his chest. His eyes were red, and John suddenly had a flashback to what Sherlock had looked like after he’d taken him away from the drug den. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then he muttered something that John couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“I said, I thought I was losing everything yesterday. But it turns out, I already had, long before. So what was the point in coming back?”

John blinked at him. “Is this about your reputation? Sherlock, you’re better than Moriarty. You can beat him. _We_ can beat him. He can’t take anything away from you if you don’t let him. Stop acting like you’ve already lost.”

In a striking change of mood, Sherlock suddenly looked angry enough to spit. He stood up and snarled, “I need to take a shower before Mycroft gets here, or he will likely make fun of my attire. You can wait here.”

John sat in confusion as Sherlock’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway.


	8. The Yellow Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is a lying liar... Or is he?

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

Sherlock allowed the water to run down him, but he made no effort to use the soap or actually bathe in any real sense of the word. He’d left his suit jacket on the floor of the bathroom. It had stopped smelling like John a few hours ago; Sherlock had noticed the lack of smell when he’d woken up from a fitful nap to find it pillowed under his head.

Sherlock was tired. God, he was tired. It wasn’t the sort of exhaustion that any rest could alleviate. The water dripped down into his eyes and mouth and made him cough, but he still didn’t move.

It was obvious that Sherlock was smarter than the average person, but he thought John was better than that. _“Is this about your reputation?”_ Sherlock sighed. No, this had nothing to do with intelligence, did it? And Sherlock had almost ruined everything, saying what he had said to John. Why could he never listen to what Mycroft told him to do?

“Cause he’s a bloody git, that’s why,” Sherlock muttered.

But Mycroft had been right. The safest thing for John to do right now was to stay with Mary. If the Holmes brothers had told John to leave her, then Mary would suspect that they knew more about her past then she thought.

Sherlock remembered when Mycroft had visited him in the hospital after Mary had shot him. Mycroft had sent the nurses scurrying and then closed the door, sitting on the end of his brother’s bed.

 

“So what now?” Sherlock had asked.

“I think now you need to forget all about Magnussen and focus on recuperating.”

“Forget about Magnussen? Mycroft, are you high? I knew I was a bad influence, but I never expected that. Though I suppose Mummy would enjoy our having a common interest. Fancy some brotherly bonding at the drug den, Mycroft?”

Mycroft had smiled his weasely smile that showed he was very much unamused. “Listen, Sherlock. Mary Watson has connections beyond which I’d— beyond what you would expect.”

“What are you implying, brother dear?” Sherlock had frowned. “Is John in danger?”

“No. Or, at least, not if we continue acting as if everything is okay. I’ve come to believe that Mary has actually fallen in love with John Watson. She’s not going to hurt him unless she suspects that we know something. But fortunately… we do not.”

“Her instructions? From whom?”

“Oh who do you think, Sherlock?” Mycroft had snapped. Then his eyes widened and he busied himself straightening his already-straight tie.

“Moriarty is dead. I saw it happen.”

“Obviously,” Mycroft had replied, narrowing his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have followers, people out there who are carrying out instructions he gave before he died.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft had sighed. “Sherlock, despite my better judgment, I care for you and worry about you.”

With a snort, Sherlock had replied, “Oh, go find yourself a goldfish, Mycroft.”

“I don’t want to happen to you what happened to Sherrinford.”

“We agreed not to talk about that,” Sherlock had snarled. “Get out of my room.”

“Sherlock—”

“GET OUT, NOW!”

 

Snapping back to the present, Sherlock heard muffled voices from the living room. Mycroft must have arrived. He turned off the water and toweled himself off, then hastily pulled on his usual ensemble.

Both Mycroft and John watched Sherlock as he sat in his chair and crossed his arms.

“So will you admit that you were wrong, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“I am never wrong,” Mycroft said, his fingers tracing the handle of his umbrella.

“You told me that you were sure Moriarty was dead. But it turns out, you were wrong. Admit it!”

Mycroft looked pained. “Fine. I was wrong. Now will you stop playing childish games and act like an adult?” He looked at Sherlock and John and nodded. “All right. John, I want you to go to Scotland Yard and speak to D.I. Lestrade about this. Ask them if they’ve noticed anything suspicious since the broadcast. James Moriarty loves to show off, so if this is really him, I believe we will know it sooner rather than later.”

John looked confused. “Couldn’t we just call them and ask? Why do I have to go down there? I’m sure Greg would tell us if they knew anything.”

“Just do it, John,” Sherlock said, looking down at his own hands.

“You lot are just trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?” John said. “Well, fine. I’ll go talk to Lestrade. And when I’m there I’ll ask him to send his most muscular officers to come over here and beat up the both of you. Or maybe just Donovan. I’m sure she’d be happy to.”

John slammed the door behind him. Sherlock sighed deeply.

“You know that he couldn’t be here for this,” Mycroft said. “You should thank me for giving him something to do.”

“Mary is getting suspicious,” Sherlock said. “I’m worried about John’s safety living with her.”

“Sherlock, stop being sentimental. You’re too smart for that. John is in the safest position he can be at the moment."

“So you really think Moriarty, or someone working for him, has her under his thumb?”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Yes, but I don’t think she expected him to be alive any more than you did. Than all of us did. She obviously has genuine feelings for John now, which was probably not part of her orders.”

“I still don’t understand why Moriarty would need to send someone to watch over John. John’s no threat to him.”

“Of course John is a threat to him, Sherlock. John is the biggest threat to him. Moriarty sent Mary to keep John away from you. At all costs. And if she can’t do that with love, then she will find some other way.”

“Pressure point,” Sherlock whispered. “But why just John? Why not you? Mrs. Hudson? John’s not the only person I care about, Mycroft.”

Mycroft delicately pressed his fingertips together. “James Moriarty is a madman,” he said slowly. “Who knows what reasoning is behind his actions?”


	9. Greg Lestrade's Mobile Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texts from the mobile phone of D.I. Lestrade.

_7:44 AM: Hi Greg, it's John. Sherlock's brother told me to talk to you so can you let me know when you get to work?  I'm waiting at Speedy's so no hurry. -JW_

 

_7:46 AM: Is sherlock still having u sign your initials on ur texts? Im actually heading toward barts atm. Molly said she had something interesting. U can meet me there if u like?_

 

_7:47 AM: You know how he is. And yeah I'll see you there. Don't you usually send someone to Bart's for you? -JW_

 

_7:51 AM: Well dont tell molly but im going to ask her out for coffee._

 

_7:52 AM: Oh well good luck mate! See you soon. -JW_

 

_7:53 AM: Btw john be careful._

 

_7:55 AM: Um all right. You too? -JW_


	10. And How Should I Begin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Greg and Molly at Bart's.

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

John found Molly in the lab at Bart’s. She was smiling to herself, her face tinged pink under her safety glasses.

“Hi, Molly. You seen Greg?”

Molly grinned up at him. “I just have, in fact, but he stepped out to use the loo a minute ago. He should be right back.”

“You look happy today,” John commented, and Molly blushed even brighter.

“Greg’s just asked me out on a date,” she said in an excited whisper.

“Ah, that’s wonderful. So no more Sherlock then, eh?” asked John.

Molly peered at him curiously. “John, that’s been over for ages. Surely you know that.”

Was she referring to her disastrous engagement as proof again? John didn’t want to know. “Oh yes, yes, of course. I’m happy for you!”

“John!” Lestrade’s voice boomed as he entered the room. “And without Sherlock Holmes, for once.”

“I’ve been banished from the club,” John muttered. “Mycroft wants to know if you’ve made any developments. Did you track that broadcast yet?”

Lestrade sighed and took a seat on one of the tall stools. “We traced it, all right. To an abandoned gift shop in bloody Chinatown. No one was there, and forensics isn’t finding any DNA, if you can believe it.”

“You’re joking.”

“Afraid not. I didn’t bother telling Sherlock because I know yesterday was a bit chaotic for him, and it doesn’t really give us much to go on. But go ahead and tell him if you’d like.”

John shrugged. “I might, but he’s been an arsehole to me, so maybe not. Well, sorry for bothering you two. I figured that you’d have called us if you’d found anything worth knowing, but Mycroft _insisted_.” He sighed. “So Molly, Greg mentioned that you found something interesting?”

“It’s three-quarters of a head,” Molly said, writing something down on a notepad. “Would you like to see it?”

“Erm, no thanks.”

 

John didn’t know where to go once he left Bart’s. He didn’t feel like going home, but he wasn’t quite sure that he’d be welcome at 221B Baker Street right now. He picked up a coffee and walked around aimlessly for a while, then bought a newspaper and sat in the park, trying to pay attention to the words in front of him.

About an hour later, during which time John might have dozed off once or twice, his phone vibrated. It was a text from Mary:

_John, your sister is here. Where are you?_

John blinked. Harry was at his house?

_I was at Bart’s. Be home soon. –JW_

No. He erased it and sent instead:

_Went out for a bit to get some air. I’d been wanting some time outside. I’ll be back soon. -JW_


	11. And in Short, I Was Afraid

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;  
Am an attendant lord, one that will do  
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,  
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,  
Deferential, glad to be of use,  
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;  
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;  
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—  
Almost, at times, the Fool.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

_8:45 AM: How’s the chat with your little brother going?_

_8:49 AM: Everything is going according to plan. –MH_

 

“So, pray tell, what do we do now, Mycroft?

“We wait.”

“I am not a patient man.”

“Nor am I. But nevertheless, we wait. A predator must show himself in order to catch his prey.”

 

_8:55 AM: Have you given my love to Mary?? :)_ _  
_

_8:56 AM:_ _I have been keeping my eye on her, as I promised. –MH_

_9:00 AM: But you haven’t given her my love?? Why not??? As long as she does her job, I won’t hurt her. Why won’t you let me play, Mycroft? :(_ _Are you falling for a married woman? SCANDALOUS! :O_

_9:04 AM: I assure you that I couldn’t care less about what happens to Mary. -MH_

“Who do you keep texting?”

“Just Anthea. There’s a situation brewing in North Korea.”

 

_9:10 AM: Ooh, am I sensing a little resentment in that last text?_

_9:12 AM: Is it John, then? You want to protect his poor fragile little heart from his naughty wife? Why Mycroft, who knew you’d become so sentimental?_

_9:14 AM: Just playing around. I know you better than that. I guess I was just hoping that our dear Sherlock would get over losing his PET. How boring of him._

 

“Are you sure that John is safe?”

“John is safe. For now.”


	12. White and Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, baby, baby!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I haven't posted in a while, but school has been overwhelming and I was a bit stuck on a major plot point that's about to happen. I have it resolved now, and oooh boy am I excited. Things are gonna get dark, man, but every cloud has a silver Johnlock lining. All of them. Go look outside. Yep, that one has a Johnlock lining. So does that one over there that looks like an elephant. This isn't even a metaphor anymore.
> 
> Also, sorry about the non-British spellings of words such as "labor." It would take me forever to pick these out and change them, so I hope they don't interrupt that Anglo flow too much. :)

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves  
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back  
When the wind blows the water white and black.  
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea  
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown  
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

John was lying in bed but not asleep, staring into the darkness, when Mary shifted abruptly and said, "Oh God, it's happening." Her voice was strained.

A shiver went through him and he sat up, scrabbling to turn on the lamp. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" she snapped, propping herself on her elbows and looking down at her stomach. "Oh, John! I'm scared."

"Okay, calm down. Let's get to the car. You're going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right."

Mary had a bag packed for things she would want at the hospital: a change of clothes for herself, clothes for the baby, a book of baby names--they still hadn't decided on one-- and a package of tiny nappies. John realized that his hands were shaking when he picked up the bag and tossed it into the back seat of the car. He led Mary to the passenger side and tried to help her in without putting any pressure on the baby.

The ride to the hospital was quiet except for Mary's labored breathing and occasional reassurances from John. It didn't feel right to turn on the radio for some reason. The streets were empty and black.

"Should we call anyone, let them know?" John asked as they pulled into the hospital. "Harry maybe?"

"You can call Harry," Mary agreed between sharp breaths. "No one else. Not yet. Just family."

 

Mary was still in labor when Harry and Clara arrived about an hour later. Harry had brought a carton of store-bought biscuits. Clara, small and raven-haired, was carrying a large bunch of pink balloons, which John had no idea how the women had obtained at two in the morning. Mary had decided against pain medication and her face was sweaty and flushed, but she smiled at the gifts and clasped Harry's hand in hers in thanks.

Clara and Harry headed to the waiting room, wanting to give John and Mary their privacy. Clara lightly touched John's back on their way out and whispered, "Nice to see you again, John."

John was glad he had never had to watch someone giving birth before; it was a long and painful-looking process, and he soon found himself exhausted just by being near Mary. Not that he'd tell her that. To try to divert her attention, he asked, "So have you thought of any names yet?"

"Yes, actually." Mary hadn't looked at him like that since their wedding, blue eyes soft and full of love. "What about your mum's name?"

"She would've loved that," John replied. He couldn't help wondering what the names of Mary's parents were, another bullet point on the long list of things he did not know about his wife. But that didn't matter, not tonight. Tonight, all that mattered was their daughter.

 

The baby came, damp and pink, howling at the world. John felt his throat swell when he saw her for the first time, and his eyes stung when Mary handed her to him after they nurses had cleaned her up. The tiny girl had a wisp of blond hair and deep blue eyes that opened and closed sleepily, focusing on nothing in particular. John's tears landed on her smooth white forehead when he cuddled her to his chin.

"Oh, my God," was all he could say.

"I know," Mary said.

 

Sherlock texted John when the sky was beginning to turn pink:  _Congratulations. -SH_

_How did you know? -JW_

_Are you really asking me that? -SH_

_It's pretty impressive, even for you. -JW_

"Oh go on and tell him to come, then," Mary said, eyeing John's fingers bouncing on the keyboard. She lifted the baby off her breast and cooed to her softly.

"Only if you're okay with it."

"It's fine."

 

Sherlock brought Mrs. Hudson with him. The older woman immediately began to gush over the baby and ask Mary about the labor.

"I'm glad I never had to do it, dear, but just look at the darling!" Mrs. Hudson cradled the girl in her arms and began babbling some made-up song. "Oh, I do love children. And she is such a beautiful one."

Sherlock didn't say anything upon entering the room, but squeezed John's shoulder. The touch felt hot to his skin, even with the barrier of fabric between them.

John looked up at his friend and attempted a smile.

"I apologize for Mycroft's behavior yesterday, John" Sherlock said quietly, so that Mrs. Hudson and Mary couldn't hear. "And for my behavior, too."

"It's fine, Sherlock. Maybe he's right. I've got a daughter to look after now. Maybe I shouldn't be so involved." John tried to make his tone light, but the words felt like stones.

"Would you like to hold her, Sherlock?" Mary offered from the bed.

Sherlock looked startled. "Um, are you sure, Mary? I'm not very--"

Mrs. Hudson placed the baby in Sherlock's arms before he could finish protesting. He blinked at the infant like it was some alien creature, perhaps trying to deduce her. "Very... cute."

"Support her head, now."

"Oh, yes..." Sherlock and the baby looked at each other. The girl seemed to be appraising this unfamiliar man for a moment. Apparently he passed inspection, for she closed her eyes and began to sleep. Sherlock looked up at John in wonder.


	13. Birth Announcement in The Telegraph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth announcement of Baby Watson.

_WATSON_

_On 29th December 2014, to Mary (née Morstan) and John, a daughter, Fiona Evelyn._


	14. Sprawling on a Pin

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,  
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall [. . .]

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

"Sherlock!" Mycroft pounded on the door of his brother's flat. "Sherlock, answer me! I know you're in there."

"He hasn't been out for two days," replied a voice from the bottom of the stairwell. Mycroft turned to see Mrs. Hudson, broom in hand. She was wearing a dusty checkered apron and looked frazzled. "He seemed fine when we visited John and Mary in the hospital, but once we came back, he holed himself up in there. Won't even eat what I bring him, even though I made his favorite for lunch earlier. I know I'm not his cook, but he ought to be eating something. Have you seen how skinny he's gotten lately? And tonight's New Year's Eve. He ought to be with people, celebrating."

Mycroft frowned, a jolt of panic shooting through his heart. He asked calmly, "Have you seen him? Are you absolutely sure he's here?"

"Oh, well, I see him now and then, when I bring him a meal. He doesn't say much, though."

Mycroft blinked as the tension ebbed. "I see."

The pair turned around when they heard the door open. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's appearance. His younger brother was dressed in wrinkled pajama pants and a worn tee shirt, his robe hanging off thin shoulders.

"Will you two keep it down?" Sherlock snarled, regarding them through bloodshot eyes. "It's impossible to think with the chatter out here. Lestrade is trying to make up for his abhorrent lack of progress on the Moriarty case by giving me a double homicide, which I'll admit is actually a fascinating situation. You see, they found the bodies three weeks apart, but they were dismembered in exactly the same manner, with exactly the same saw. What makes this strange is that they thought they caught the murderer of the first one a week ago. He's in jail as we speak, so clearly he couldn't have killed the second victim, but his DNA is all over both bodies."

"Sherlock! I do not need to hear all the gory details," Mrs. Hudson chided, her face having paled during Sherlock's rapid-fire speech. The woman began to retreat to her own flat and added gently, "But do let me know if you need anything, dear."

Sherlock didn't reply, so Mycroft nodded at Mrs. Hudson and turned to his brother. "Why haven't you returned my calls?" 

"I prefer to text."

"You haven't responded to my text messages, either."

"Then I prefer smoke signals."

Mycroft felt Sherlock's glare as he strolled into the flat and sat down in an armchair.

"That's John's chair," Sherlock snapped, following Mycroft inside.

"Well, I don't see John here, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind." Mycroft crossed his long legs and regarded his brother. "Sherlock--"

"I know what you're going to say, but it's utterly pointless. Like I just said a minute ago, Lestrade hasn't made any progress. There hasn't been a peep from Moriarty. Didn't you tell me that our job was to wait? Well, I'm waiting."Sherlock sat down across from Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed. "I warned you, you know. About getting involved."

"Is that why you came here? To tell me that?" Sherlock's voice suddenly became chipper. "Thank you, Mycroft! What a helpful big brother you are!" He hopped up from his chair and stalked to the wall filled with case information, staring into the papers and photographs.

They could hear Mrs. Hudson bustling downstairs, continuing her cleaning.

Mycroft steepled his fingers. "I understand that you're upset, Sherlock. John won't have as much time for you now that he has the baby."

Sherlock didn't look back at Mycroft. "Yes, Mycroft, I am selfish enough to worry about _that_ rather than the fact that his wife is Jim Moriarty's personal assistant."

The brothers spun around when they heard a thunk from behind them.

John Watson stood in the doorway, the one that Sherlock had negligently left open, his empty hand frozen in the air. He had dropped his mobile phone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuuuun!


	15. The Yellow Smoke

In a minute there is time  
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

The moment stretched on. Sherock and John stared at each other. John's mouth hung open at first, and then his features rearranged themselves into a terrifying grimace of rage. Sherlock's heart felt like an animal clawing to escape his chest.

"Sherlock, is there anywhere in your flat that could be bugged?" Mycroft demanded. He had recovered from the shock faster than anyone else, and was now flitting around the room, peering behind books and under tables.

"N-no. I... I had Lestrade check after Magnussen was here," Sherlock stammered as Mycroft slammed the door of the flat and stormed into the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes didn't leave John, who was red-faced and shaking violently. "Why are you checking for them  _now_?"

"Are you absolutely sure?" Mycroft asked, ignoring the question. He pushed aside a tray full of petri dishes with his umbrella.

"Shut up, Mycroft!" John shouted. He pointed a trembling finger at Mycroft. "Shut up. Right now."

The Holmes brothers fell silent and shared a wide-eyed glance. John stomped over to Sherlock and roughly grabbed a handful of his robe in each fist. John was close enough that Sherlock could feel his breath on his neck. Sherlock winced and closed his eyes, preparing for the blow. But it never came. He risked a sidelong glance at John and was startled to see that the shorter man was crying.

"For the love of God, Sherlock," John whispered. "For the first time in our life, tell me the truth."

"John..." Sherlock snuck a glance at Mycroft, who reluctantly nodded. "Okay. Yes. You deserve to know the truth."

 

The three men sat around the unlit fireplace. Though none but Sherlock would have noticed it, Mycroft was unusually twitchy. John, on the other hand, was a block of stone, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were dry now, though there were tear stains streaking his cheeks.

"Is my daughter safe?" he asked.

Mycroft hesitated for the briefest of moments. "Yes."

John's frown deepened. "If you're wrong, I will strangle you."

"Duly noted."

"You may think I'm not capable, but I truly will," John said venomously. He turned to Sherlock. "You. Tell me what's going on." 

"Perhaps I am the one who should explain," Mycroft said. "John, you should not blame Sherlock for this. Everything he did, he did under my orders."

John didn't reply, but Sherlock could tell that Mycroft's statement had not succeeded in putting him in John's good graces.

"Did you ever read your wife's flash drive, John?" Mycroft asked. "The one with 'A.G.R.A.' written on it?"

John paused. "How do you know about--" He glared at Sherlock. "Never mind. No, I didn't read it. I wanted to pretend it never existed. But despite that... I burned a copy of it onto a CD just in case I ever wanted it. I keep it in an empty DVD case. _Brazil_. Mary doesn't like science fiction."

"It honestly doesn't matter whether you read it or not," Mycroft admitted. "The information on it was mostly falsified, and the rest was out of date. I just wanted to know if you had any preconceived notion as to what Mary Morstan did before you met her."

"I know she was an assassin," John said tonelessly. "The mother of my child... killed people for pay."

"Unlike the British woman named Abigail Addams that appears in the flash drive, Antonina Alogrina was born in Novosibirsk, Russia," Mycroft said, consulting something on his phone. "She had a very unfortunate childhood there, it seems. She was an orphan. From the records we have, it seems that she made her first kill at the age of--"

"Stop!" John said. "Please. I don't want to hear this unless it's from Mary herself. I just need to know what's relevant now. Please."

"John, there's no easy way to say this." Mycroft fidgeted with the handle of his umbrella. "James Moriarty hired Mary to seduce you."

John closed his eyes and inhaled. "Why?"

Sherlock's face warmed. He muttered, "He wanted to keep you away from me."

"What?"

"Pay attention, John. He wanted to keep you away from me."

"I heard you the first time. I just don't understand. Mary doesn't 'keep me away' from you. Sure, I don't live here anymore, but she didn't _replace_ you, Sherlock."

Mycroft looked to the ceiling and kneaded his forehead.

Sherlock sighed. "John, do you remember what I was like when we first met? I was unsociable, unlikable, cold, and cruel. I have been trying..." he swallowed. "I have been trying to become a better man. I often fail, but I am trying. That never would have happened without you, John. Your friendship has changed me more than I can say."

John chewed on his bottom lip and looked down at his hands in his lap. "Well, okay. That's very nice. Um, but I still don't see how Mary has anything to do with this."

"Moriarty... he doesn't want me to change," Sherlock continued. "You've seen him. You know how he is. He wants a worthy adversary, someone as intelligent yet as _inhuman_ as he is. And you're ruining it for him, John. Moriarty thought that with Mary to distract you, perhaps you wouldn't have enough time for me. That perhaps I would go back to being how I was before."

"That's bonkers," John mumbled, shaking his head. "This is all just insane."

"I truly believe that Mary loves you, John," Mycroft added. "I think that she would be content to live with you in tranquil domesticity for the rest of your lives. But that won't happen now, because now you know the truth. Moriarty will not be happy to see that Mary has failed in securing your love. Unless..."

"Unless I pretend," John finished, the color leeching from his face. "That's why you didn't tell me before. Oh, God. How can I pretend to love her, now that I know what she is?"

"You've been doing fine so far this week," Sherlock said, a taste like bile in his mouth. "Or are you legitimately going to say that you really forgave her on Christmas for attempting to murder me?"

"I forgave her because of _you_ , Sherlock! You said it was surgery!" John glared at him. "Are you saying you lied to me about that, too? God, Sherlock, is there anything you didn't lie to me about?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. He diverted his gaze from John's.

John ran a hand through his hair. "Answer me this, then. If Moriarty would be upset if I was angry with Mary, how come nothing happened when I wasn't speaking to her, eh? All those months? Why didn't he do anything then?"

"He wasn't out of hiding yet," Mycroft answered. "From what I gather, his communications were limited up until the end of December. He likely heard the news from a confidante that Sherlock was being sent abroad, and that's when he came back, to prevent it." He steepled his fingers. "Perhaps Mary hoped, as we all did, that he wouldn't come back. Don't forget that she loves you, John. That's something Moriarty didn't count on. Use that to your benefit. She will do anything to keep your little family together."

"Even shooting Sherlock in the chest," John said. "Yeah, that's a really healthy way to make me love her." He buried his face in his hands and said, muffled, "And to think I was coming over here to invite you to spend New Year's Eve at our house."

Mycroft stood up and extended a hand to John. John lifted his head and looked at Mycroft warily. "You should go home, John. Be with your wife and daughter. I have faith in you."

"How long, though? How long do I have to pretend? I can't do this for the rest of my life." John ignored Mycroft's hand and stood up on his own.

"Not forever," Sherlock said. "Just until we find Moriarty. Once he's gone, we can take care of Mary."

John nodded weakly. "Okay. Okay. I need to see Fiona, make sure she's all right."

"John. Promise us that Mary won't suspect anything," said Mycroft.

"She won't. I can do this. For Fiona." John looked at the Holmes brothers as if he was about to say something, but he turned away without another word and hurried out of the flat, limping slightly.

Sherlock bit his lip. When John was outside, he asked, "Why were you checking for bugs, Mycroft? If you were worried about them, shouldn't you have done that days ago?"

Mycroft sighed. "It slipped my mind before now. It was a lapse in judgment of which I am not proud. In any case, you can never be too careful with sensitive information such as this, brother dear."  


Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "I suppose not."

 


	16. Texts from the Mobile Phone of ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Improbable One sends a few messages to his confidantes.

_1:32 PM: JOHN KNOWS._

_1:34 PM: Who is this?_

_1:36 PM: Forgotten me so soon, Mary? Is Mary what you're going by these days? I'm going to call you Beatrice instead. Do you like Beatrice?_

_1:38 PM: How did you get this number? John doesn't know anything. We are very happy together._

_1:40 PM: Well if he doesn't seem up to snuff when you're rolling in the hay tonight, you'll know that I TOLD YOU SO!_

_1:42 PM: I did everything that you asked._

_1:45 PM: No, Beatrice. You failed me! And all I asked you to do was be sexy. Poor Beatrice. Too ugly for John, I guess. Or maybe too female?_

_1:45 PM: Is this some kind of joke?_

_1:47 PM: Hello?_

_1:49 PM: He does love me! He doesn't suspect anything!_

_1:50 PM: Please!_

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

_3:14 PM: Oh, Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft. What have you done?_

_3:15 PM: To what are you referring? -MH_

_3:17 PM: Don't play dumb. If you don't want him to die, meet me at Battersea Power Station at midnight. Sherlock is a fun toy, THE funnest toy, but I won't hesitate to slit his throat if that's what it takes._

_3:20 PM: And if you're wondering how I know about all this, check your umbrella. ;)_

 


	17. Gone at Dusk

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets  
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes  
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

 -T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

John was sitting in the back of a taxi when he got a call from his sister.

He fumbled with the buttons. "Harry? Is everything okay?"

"Course it is, John. Why wouldn't it be?" Harry's voice was lighthearted, but John could hear the hurt lying underneath it. "You know, I've been sober. I've never tried this hard before in my life. I think I can really do it now, John, thanks in no small part to your little Fiona. She's given me so much hope."

John remembered with guilt the way he and his friends would call her "Hurricane Harry" when they were teenagers and Harry had started drinking at parties. She'd come home drunk late at night and trash the house with her discarded dress clothes and empty food wrappers. Eating peanut butter out of the jar and leaving it on the kitchen counter was one of her specialties. But that had been before things had gotten really bad, when things still had been funny.

"Sorry, Harry. I didn't mean anything by it. I've just been under pressure today. Um, how are you?" John really wasn't in the mood for this conversation, but he supposed this was good practice for acting naturally around Mary. Besides, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a chat on the phone with his sister.

"I am wonderful, wonderful! Being the best aunt in existence. I was just wondering, where do you keep the formula?"

John stared blankly into the back of the cabbie's balding head. "The formula to what?" He illogically envisioned Sherlock's books of chemistry equations on the kitchen table at Baker Street.

"The infant formula, you idiot," Harry teased. "I can't find it."

"Why do you need the--" John gasped, a cold shiver running down the length of his body. "Are you with Fiona?"

"Yes, I'm babysitting. I thought you knew that?"

"Oh no, oh no. Where is Fiona?"

"She's in her crib right here, John. She's fine. Why are you--"

"Are you absolutely sure she's okay?" John shouted into the phone. The cabbie peered at him curiously from the rear view mirror.

"Yes, damn it! What is wrong with you?"

"Where is Mary?"

"John,  _calm down_. Bloody hell. Mary literally just walked out the door five minutes ago. She texted me and said she wanted to go out for a bit with some girlfriends. Poor thing hasn't left the house since you got back from hospital. Let her have a little fun."

"Harry, I need you to listen very carefully to me."

"Don't use that patronizing tone with me, John!"

John raked his hands through his hair, about ready to start pulling it out. "Just listen! Please, Harry. I need you to go into the master bedroom and look in the closet. Tell me if there's a black suitcase in there with an orange ribbon on the handle."

Harry sighed. "Fine." John heard rustling for a moment. "No, I don't see any suitcase in here. I don't know _what_ you're thinking, but Mary didn't have any bags with her when she left."

"None that you saw," John cried, utter panic seizing him. "Harry, I'm on my way home. Make sure the doors are locked. Do  _not_ let Fiona out of your sight, not for one minute."

John hung up without waiting for a response, and immediately dialed Sherlock.

Sherlock answered after the first ring. "John?"

"Mary's gone, Sherlock," John said, unable to control his hyperventilation. "Harry's with Fiona and I think Mary knows I know. She knows I know, Sherlock! I don't know what to do. Her suitcase is gone and I don't think she's really out with her friends."

Sherlock waited patiently for John to finish babbling, then said, "John, I need you to take a breath."

"Sherlock--"

"John. Breathe. Now listen to me. What's the most important thing right now?"

"Fiona," John gasped.

"Yes. And right now, Fiona is safe. What was our main concern with Mary becoming aware that you knew the truth?"

"That she would hurt someone. Or that Moriarty would hurt someone."

"Quite, John. I was worried that Mary would take Fiona with her if she tried to flee, but that is not the case, obviously. Fiona is safe for the moment, as is everyone else we care about. Harry is safe at your house. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs. I will call Lestrade to make sure that he is safe. Okay, John? No one is in danger right now."

"But Sherlock--"

"Having said that, John, it is essential that we  _stay_ safe. If Mary really has left, then Moriarty will come for you. Or me. I-I'm not really sure."

"But what do we do?" The cab was nearing his house now, and John was sweating with anticipation.

"Stay put. I will get in touch with Mycroft and we will be over shortly."

They pulled up to the house and John thrust a handful of bills at the cabbie. John sprinted up the lawn, and when Harry opened the door with Fiona in her arms, John wrapped them in a tight hug and hurried them inside.

 

 

 


	18. Lonely Men in Shirt-Sleeves

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!  
Smoothed by long fingers,  
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,  
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

Sherlock arrived at John's house to find the three Watsons huddled in the living room, the elder two holding cups of untouched tea. Sherlock had only met Harry at the hospital, but the cheery woman he'd seen there was nothing like the frightened personage before him with mascara running down her cheeks. John didn't look any better, his shirt untucked and hair mussed. Fiona, napping quietly in Harry's arms, was the only calm one among them.

John locked the door behind Sherlock and looked at him with such a helpless expression that Sherlock couldn't help but take John's hand in his and squeeze. John looked down at their hands, confused, but didn't comment. Sherlock quickly released it and cleared his throat.

"Lestrade is taking Mrs. Hudson and Molly to a safe place, just in case. He assured me that all of them will be fine, and I am inclined to trust him, daft as Scotland Yard can be." He addressed Harry now: "You need to find somewhere safe to be. I can arrange for Lestrade to find you a place, or you can stay with John and me."

"Where are  _we_ going?" John asked, but Sherlock ignored him.

"I need to find Clara," Harry muttered. "You don't think Clara's in any danger, do you? I need to go home and find her."

"Not to belittle Clara in any way, but her connection to John and me is tenuous at best, so I doubt she is in any danger. Does she have family anywhere within driving distance? Someone you could stay with? As I said, you are welcome to come with us, but perhaps it would not do to reinforce your sibling bond to those who might try to use it against you."

Harry bit her lip. "Clara's got cousins in Kent that could take us in. I suppose we could drive there tonight."

John looked nervous. "No. You should stay with us."

"You have a target on your back, John," Sherlock said. "It would be better for Harry to go with Clara."

"Fine. But I'm not leaving Fiona with anyone," John said sharply. "I'm keeping her by my side."

Sherlock nodded. "It's against my better instincts, but it's up to you."

Harry passed Fiona to John, and left the room to call Clara.

"We don't even know if Moriarty is really back," John muttered, swaying back and forth with the baby. He gently kissed Fiona's forehead.

"Mycroft thinks he is."

"Where is Mycroft, anyway?" John asked, turning around as if he had missed Mycroft's entrance. "I thought he was meeting us here."

Sherlock checked his phone for new messages. "I don't actually know where he is," he said slowly. "He hasn't answered my calls. I assume he's dealing with a situation in Korea he mentioned a few days ago."

John gaped at Sherlock. "You  _assume_? Sherlock, what if he's in danger? He's your brother! I know you don't get on with him, but aren't you the least bit worried?" He shook his head. "Unbelievable. And I thought you were trying to become more human." _  
_

Sherlock looked at John sharply. "Mycroft is smarter than us both. He is perfectly capable of handling himself. I've seen it myself, John, everyone around him dropping like flies, and Mycroft standing in the middle of it all." _  
_

John stared at Sherlock, shaking his head. "What happened to you two to make you this way?"

Sherlock curled his lip and suddenly headed up the stairs. "We need to pack a bag for you and Fiona."

 

John hugged Harry tightly before he allowed her to go. She assured him that she'd call once she met up with Clara, and again when they reached Kent.

"Don't worry, little brother. Just take care of little Fifi for me."

"We are not calling her Fifi." John managed a smile.

"John." Harry hesitated. "Thank you for letting me back into your life. I know I haven't been a good sister, and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for allowing Mary to trick me. I was so excited. I thought she and I were becoming friends."

John sniffed. "You weren't the only one she tricked... And It's good to have you back, Harry. I missed you."

Harry turned to Sherlock. "Take care of him, Sherlock." She tilted her head to look into Sherlock's face and nodded after a moment. "I can see what Mary was talking about now."

"What do you mean?" asked John. "What has she done this time?" His voice was brutal.

"She was jealous," Harry said simply. She hugged John again, kissed Fiona, and walked out the door.

John scoffed, watching her climb into her car. "Sometimes she says the oddest things."

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed."

 

Mary had taken the car with her, so they were forced to travel via cab. Sherlock had lengthily investigated the cabbie before consenting to allow him to drive them anywhere, while John kept repeating that they'd tip him extra as an apology for Sherlock's behavior.

Once they were in the car, John clasped Fiona tightly to his chest, smoothing her wisp of hair every so often. John knew he should have the baby in a car seat, but he didn't want to let her go.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?"

"The last place anyone would expect me to go," Sherlock replied.

"What's that? A football stadium?" John guessed. "Oh, I know. A planetarium. Or perhaps a barber?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock flattened down his hair. "Don't be stupid, John. We're going to Sally Donovan's house."

"You're joking."

Sherlock's mouth curved up. "Just the reaction I was hoping for!"

"You're insane. She hates you. Does she even know we're coming?"

Sherlock nodded. "Lestrade talked her into it, so I suppose it wasn't really her idea. But she has an extra bedroom and a reputation for being opposed to me, so it worked out beautifully."

"Well this will be wonderful."

 

They got dropped off a block away and walked to Sally's house , a modest split-level suburban home painted light blue. From the brush in the yard, it appeared as though she had a sizable garden in front of her house when the weather was warm.

"Hi," was Sally's short reply when they arrived on her doorstep. She was dressed in jeans and a yellow sweater, her hair pulled into a springy ponytail. Despite her short greeting, her face softened when she noticed the baby. "Why, hello there, darling!"

John smiled. "Her name's Fiona. Brand new."

Sherlock stared in disbelief as Sally actually smiled without malice in her eyes. "What a sweetheart. All right, let's get you lot inside."

The interior of the house was cozy and warm, with thick beige carpeting and numerous cats prowling around. The walls were painted yellow, and trinkets and novels filled the bookshelves. Sherlock couldn't believe that this was where Sally Donovan lived, or anything that was happening, really. From his earliest deductions of her he might have anticipated her apparently soft interior, but all of that had been deleted when they'd begun antagonizing each other. Maybe it was time to stop deleting things, Sherlock mused.

"I was going to make pasta for dinner. Is that all right?" She looked down at Fiona. "I don't have any baby formula, but I can go out and get some."

"No," Sherlock said. "Don't do anything out of the ordinary. It is essential for you to complete your daily routine as if we were not here."

"We have food for her, anyway," John said, lifting the strap of the tote bag on his shoulder.

"You can put your things in the spare room. Sorry it's a bit small, but I do have a crib in there for when my sister visits with her kids."

John and Sherlock trudged upstairs with their bags. The room was indeed small, with barely enough floor space for the full sized bed and the crib as it was, let alone for two people to be walking in it at one time with numerous suitcases.

"I can take the couch," Sherlock offered. "I don't need much sleep, anyway." He honestly wouldn't mind sharing a bed with John _(don't even think that!)_ , but it seemed the right thing to say.

John snorted. "With all those cats? Good luck. Seriously, Sherlock, we can both stay here. It's fine."

Sherlock nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's true that I'm not very fond of cats."

 

The dinner conversation was primarily between Sally and John. Sherlock stared into his pasta, thinking, and only took a bite when John prompted him, although Sally wasn't a particularly good cook and John didn't seem too eager to clean his plate either. John had fed Fiona a bottle and put her to bed, but kept getting up from the table to check on her.

After dinner, they made awkward small talk in the living room, mostly about babies and recent cases unrelated to Moriarty. Sherlock noted that Sally was trying her best not to make any sharp comments toward him, which he supposed was easier since he was being so quiet.

"If either of you want a shower, the towels are in the closet right next to the bathroom," Sally finally said once the sun had fully set. "I'm going to head to bed. I need to get up early for work. Feel free to do whatever you'd like; I'm a heavy sleeper." She made a face. "That came out differently than how I intended it." She offered a small laugh and retreated upstairs to her bedroom.

Sherlock and John stayed in the living room for a while, not saying much of anything.

"She's different here," Sherlock murmured.

"Who, Sally?" John asked. "Yeah. I don't know. I never really liked her because of the way she treated you, especially after... you know."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I was never very nice to her either." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's just so difficult to be nice to idiots."

"Well, I wouldn't call her an idiot."

"Oh, everyone's an idiot, John."

"Even me?" John chewed on his bottom lip. "Yeah, I am, actually. Look at me. Married to a psychopath, running away from another psychopath... with a psychopath." He smirked at Sherlock.

"I'm not a psychopath," Sherlock protested.

"You're not a sociopath either, you git."

Sherlock shrugged. "Categories are boring." He noticed John's glances upstairs. "If you're worried about Fiona, go up there and be with her."

"Yeah," John agreed. "I guess I'll head up. I'm knackered, anyway." He stood and stretched, a white sliver of stomach appearing under his shirt as it lifted. "Are you, er, headed up? I kind of wanted a shower and wondered if you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on her."

Sherlock sprang to his feet. "Of course."

 

John headed toward the bathroom. Sherlock lay on the bed fully clothed, watching Fiona's belly move up and down in the adjacent crib. He'd never thought much about children, definitely not having his own children, but something about Fiona's placid face as she slept stirred something deep and sad inside him, something he couldn't explain. Without understanding why, Sherlock felt his eyes tear up. Sniffling, he brushed his sleeve across his face. _Sentiment_. His breathing grew more regular and he felt his eyelids weighted down with exhaustion.


	19. Settling a Pillow

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,  
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me [. . .]

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

John found both Fiona and Sherlock curled up asleep when he returned to the tiny bedroom. The overhead lamp was still on, and Sherlock was wearing his shoes. John gently began to unlace the shoes and pull them off the detective's feet, but the movement stirred Sherlock awake.

"John?" he asked blearily.

"You fell asleep with your shoes on," John explained.

"Oh." Sherlock sat up and stared at his feet. "Okay." He yanked off his shoes and threw them on the floor, then turned to John and blinked sleepily. "I'm sorry. I was supposed to be watching Fiona."

"You're fine. You can go back to sleep, though you might want to put some pajamas on."

Sherlock seemed to regard John's pajamas for a moment. "I suppose so." He zipped open his suitcase and pulled out a delicately folded pair of pajama pants, as well as a pristine cotton tee shirt.

John shook his head in amusement and slipped under the quilted duvet on the side nearest the door. He started when Sherlock began to shed his clothes right in front of him instead of doing it in the bathroom, complete with flinging his dress shirt over the foot-board of the bed. John turned so that he was facing the other way, his face hot. He supposed Sherlock wasn't used to having friends, and knowing what was normal and not normal for friends to do.

_Hell, John. Since when have you had any friends like Sherlock Holmes?_

John didn't turn back around until Sherlock had turned off the overhead light and slid in next to him. For what felt like at least twenty minutes, the two lay awake without speaking.

"John," Sherlock finally breathed.

"Hmm?"

"I'm worried about Mycroft."

John shifted so he was on his side facing Sherlock. "What do you mean? You said he'd be fine."

"I lied when I told you he hadn't returned my texts. He texted me once, but he only said one thing: 'Hide.'" Sherlock's voice was barely louder than a whisper.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You had other things to worry about," Sherlock responded. "And it's true what I said, you know. Mycroft always is all right. But still, I can't help worrying. I pretend that I hate him, and a lot of the time, I do. But he's still the only brother I have left."

John licked his lips in the darkness, unsure of what to say. Suddenly, the meaning of Sherlock's words hit him. "The only one you have left?"

Sherlock exhaled deeply, his breath wafting over John's face. "We had another brother. His name was Sherrinford. He was three years older than Mycroft. He... died."

"I'm so sorry." John tried to pat Sherlock's arm comfortingly, but without being able to see, he accidentally jabbed Sherlock in the neck.

"Ow!"

"I'm sorry!" John exclaimed. They heard Fiona coo and waited a moment until they were sure she hadn't woken up. "I'm sorry," he repeated, softer. "That was an accident."

"Remind me not to tell you any sad childhood stories in the future," Sherlock hissed, rubbing at his neck.

They were quiet for a few minutes.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? Do you need to talk?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock paused. "Do you?"

"No."

 

John awoke a few hours later to the sound of Fiona's cries. Somehow, Sherlock was still sleeping through the noise, and John realized with a sharp increase in heart rate that one of Sherlock's arms had found its way around his waist, Sherlock's long fingers dangling over John's side. John quickly shuffled away from Sherlock and out of bed. He checked to make sure that Fiona was dry and then held her for a while, staring blankly out the window, until she fell back asleep. When he returned to bed, John made sure to sleep right on the edge of his side, just so Sherlock wouldn't wake up and get the wrong idea.


	20. Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse  
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,  
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.  
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo  
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,  
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

_If I but thought that my response were made_  
_to one perhaps returning to the world,_  
_this tongue of flame would cease to flicker._  
_But since, up from these depths, no one has yet_  
_returned alive, if what I hear is true,_  
_I answer without fear of being shamed._

Quotation from Dante's _Inferno_ in T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

Midnight. Battersea Power Station was incredibly dark. Mycroft used his mobile phone to see in front of him, missing the weight of his umbrella in his hand. The umbrella. Of course it had been the umbrella. How could he have been so stupid? He wasn't sure when someone would have had a chance to bug it, seeing it was nearly always in Mycroft's possession, but he supposed it would have been easy enough if he had rested it next to his feet while eating at a restaurant, or--he shivered--next to his bed at night. _  
_

Mycroft slowed his pace when he saw a flickering light from around the corner. He turned and walked down the corridor to see a young woman with a torch standing in the large open space. She was tall, with long dark hair, dressed in a simple black pantsuit. The light from the torch on her cheekbones cast shadows that bathed the lower half of her face in darkness.

"Mycroft Holmes?" the woman asked. She had a slight Slavic accent.

"Yes. Is he afraid to meet me here in person?" Mycroft asked, adopting the bored expression that often graced his face. "I expected better."

"He is not afraid. However, he is aware that you have many connections and decided it would be wiser to send someone in his place." She gestured to herself.

Mycroft sighed, glancing around him. "Well, let's get this over with, shall we?"

The woman nodded slowly. She produced a small ring box from the pocket of her trousers and held it out to Mycroft. "He wants you to to give this to your brother and make sure that he wears it."

Mycroft took the box reluctantly and looked down at it. It was covered in green velvet. "Part of our agreement was that no harm comes to Sherlock Holmes."

The woman smiled. "He does not want any harm to come to your brother, not yet. You know this. But he _does_ need Mr. Holmes near, or else..." she paused, as if listening to something far away. "Or else what's the fun in it? He's quite disappointed that Sh- that Mr. Holmes gave up on the dismemberment case." She paused again. "He had it planned out so well for Mr. Holmes."

"The dismemberment case?" Mycroft echoed. "That's impossible. He hasn't been back long enough to have anything to do with that."

The woman shrugged. "Maybe not personally." She cracked her fingers loudly. "But that doesn't mean he didn't have an influence." She smiled.

The woman suddenly tilted her head to the side for a few moments, her long curtain of hair swinging around her face. "He wants me to tell you that you better not think about throwing away the box. He may want Sherlock alive, but he has no... tender feelings for either you... or your parents." She winced slightly when she said the last word. "How does that sound... Mycroft Holmes?

Mycroft pocketed the box. "Duly noted. Is that all?"

The woman listened, then nodded. "Yes. Safe travels, Mr. Holmes."

 

Back in the car with the distracted Anthea, Mycroft opened the ring box. Inside, on a cushion of silk, lay a tiny lapel pin in the shape of an "S." Minuscule blue gems shone from the silver plating.

"He expects me to get Sherlock to wear this?" Mycroft muttered. Anthea didn't seem to hear him, and continued scrolling through something on her phone.

Mycroft sighed heavily and attached the pin to his own lapel. He took out his mobile phone and dialed a number.

"Mummy? I'm sorry; I know it's late. But I need you to listen to me very carefully."


	21. A Hundred Indecisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mamma mia! That's a spicy story!

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
Would it have been worth while,  
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,  
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—  
And this, and so much more?—

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

Sally unintentionally woke John around six o'clock the next morning with the sound of her hairdryer through the thin wall separating the guest room and the bathroom. John, his shoulder sore from crowding himself on the edge of the bed, stretched and got dressed. By the time Sherlock finally stirred, John had fed Fiona a bottle, changed her nappy, and settled her back into the crib.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" Sherlock asked crossly. He sat up and settled his arms on his knees.

"Happy New Year to you, too. Have you got somewhere to be?" John retorted. "With how little you sleep, I thought you needed it."

Sherlock harrumphed and reached for his phone on the side table. His face brightened when he turned it on. "Mycroft texted me!"

"What did he say?"

"He says... 'Stay where you are, but don't tell me where it is in case our communication is intercepted. I've got Mummy and Father handled.'" Sherlock made a face. "Mummy and Father? What on earth is he talking about?"

Sherlock clicked away at his phone while John meandered downstairs to find something for breakfast. Sally had left them coffee and wrote a note saying they could eat anything they wanted. John shrugged and peered into the refrigerator.

Sherlock shouted to John as he walked down the stairs, still in pajamas. "Mycroft said that since we're finding hiding places for everyone _else_ in the world, he thought it would be wise to hide our parents, too, which is ridiculous. Mummy has always been able to fend for my father and herself."

John got out a jar of marmalade and began to search for bread. "You're not worried at all?"

Sherlock sniffed.  "Of course not. I don't know where Mycroft gets these ideas. My parents don't even live in London, which is where Moriarty will be looking for me. And you may not know her very well, John, but my mother was quite the fighter in her day."

"Your dad says she's a bit of a genius. Pity you didn't inherit any of that." John grinned when Sherlock glowered at him.

"Careful with that bread knife, John, you might hurt yourself. As I was  _saying_ , Mycroft is safe, albeit illogical, and now that we are just sitting around waiting, I'm bored. I never got to solve the case Lestrade gave me."

John paused in his application of marmalade. "No, Sherlock, you are  _not_ going off to solve a crime. Not now. We are supposed to be in hiding, not making spectacles of ourselves."

"Spectacles?  _Spectacles?_ " Sherlock echoed. "Is that what I do, make spectacles?"

"Hmm, let me think of an occasion that Sherlock Holmes did something dramatic." John looked up at the ceiling as if in intense concentration. "Well, there was the time you went to Buckingham Palace dressed in nothing but a sheet. Hmm, and that time you deliberately drugged me; that was pretty dramatic. Oh, and how about that one time when you  _jumped of the fucking roof of a building_ , you bloody drama queen!"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Do you really think I'd do something to put you and your daughter in danger, John? Is that how you see me?"

John sighed, twisting the tie on the bread bag. "No, Sherlock, I don't think you'd intentionally put us in danger. But what I  _can_ see you doing is going out deducing, thinking that you'll be discreet, but then someone notices you or something happens, and then everything falls apart." He violently screwed the lid back on the marmalade jar and thrust it into the fridge.

"'Going out deducing,'" Sherlock spat, leaning against the table. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm glad to know you have so much faith in my judgment."

The phone in John's pocket vibrated. He glanced at Sherlock and held up a finger. "One second. We are not done with this conversation."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh no," John muttered. "It's from Mary."

_John I'm leaving the country for a while. Please let me see you before I go. We can still be a family when all this is over._

John stared at the screen in disbelief. Sherlock came up behind him so that he could read the message.

"What do I do?" John asked quietly.

"Don't ask me. I'll just ruin it," Sherlock muttered.

Now John rolled his eyes. "You know I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock."

John typed: _You walked out on us. You were hired to marry me. You shot my best friend. Now tell me why I should want to see you?_

He hesitated before sending it. "Maybe it's not too late. To fool Moriarty, that is. Maybe if I go back to her now, he'll leave us alone."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I think we're past that point, John. But I don't know." He bit his lip. "I should try to find him myself. It's me he wants. Then, I can either kill him, or he can kill me. Either way, it'll be done with and you and Fiona will be safe."

John turned toward him brusquely. "What is wrong with you? Don't even say that. I'm not letting you sacrifice yourself again. You can't possibly think that all of your loved ones will sit back and let you have it out with Moriarty on your own! Jesus Christ." He sent the message. "There, Sherlock. It's done. And now it's my problem too, not just yours. Okay?"

Sherlock huffed. "So first jumping off a building was a sign of my dramatic nature, and now it's a noble sacrifice."

"Sherlock, stop it!" John shook his head. "Come on, let's find a board game to play or something. Keep your mind busy."

"Only if it's Cluedo," Sherlock replied, picking up John's bread and taking a huge bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that there will probably be a sequel to this story unless I can miraculously wrap up everything within this one. I guess we'll have to see! I'm envisioning about another five chapters for "Love Song," but that might end up being completely inaccurate and we'll have a behemoth 3,000-chapter story on our hands.
> 
> In any case, thanks for all of the kudos/comments/views. You all are the Sherlock to my John. Or, if you prefer, the John to my Sherlock. I'm not picky. :)


	22. John Watson's Mobile Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texts from the phone of John Watson.

_7:44 AM: John I'm leaving the country for a while. Please let me see you before I go. We can still be a family when this is all over._

 

_7:47 AM: You walked out on us. You were hired to marry me. You shot my best friend. Now tell me why I should want to see you? -JW_

 

_8:05 AM: Because I love you, John, that's why. And I'm sorry for leaving. I was scared._

 

_8:55 AM: You've never given me a reason to trust you. -JW_

 

_9:32 AM: If you just meet me before I leave I can explain._

 

_9:46 AM: John please_

 

_10:01 AM: It's not my fault. You should have seen the messages that Moriarty sent me._

 

_10:33 AM: John you WILL talk to me!_


	23. The Fool

And indeed there will be time  
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”  
Time to turn back and descend the stair [. . .]

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

It had been hell trying to keep Sherlock entertained all day, especially when John was anxious himself. After what felt like fourteen games of Cluedo, all but one of which Sherlock had won ("A fluke!"), they had watched television for a few hours, then tried to complete a jigsaw puzzle. Like a caged bird, Sherlock kept looking outside longingly, but he didn't mention the case again. Still, when John gave Fiona a bath he made sure to leave the bathroom door open to keep an eye on the antsy detective.

John had long since stopped responding to Mary's text messages, but that didn't prevent her from barraging him every half hour or so. Her messages had gone from pleading to downright threatening by the afternoon.

_Damn it john!_

_I will not let you do this._

_I'm coming back for Fiona. She should be with me._

The last one bothered John the most, and since then he had kept his eyes glued to his daughter. Sherlock kept glancing at John's phone whenever he'd pull it out to read the messages, but he didn't ask John what they said.

The hours trudged on; the sun slowly receded below the horizon. After experiencing Sally's cooking, John wasn't looking forward to dinner that night. Mercifully, Sally came home from work with paper cartons of takeout Chinese food. The three of them ate in silence except for an unexpected remark from Sherlock:

"Thank you for taking us in, Sally. It means more to us than we can say."

John watched Sally cautiously, worried she might faint from shock. All she did was raise her eyebrows, then look down at her plate with a tiny smile. "It's not a problem."

John glanced back and forth between them. Was Sherlock Holmes flirting with Sally Donovan? Dear God, he didn't think he could handle Sherlock making kissy faces at someone else after the Janine fiasco. From across the kitchen table, Sherlock caught John's eye and tilted his head questioningly. John shrugged.

Mary finally stopped texting John about the time they'd finished their dinner. Relieved, John finally was able to relax until bedtime. He returned from his nighttime shower to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the bed, his thumbs moving rapidly across his phone. Fiona lay at the detective's feet, fast asleep in her pink onesie.

"Finally got her to stop crying, eh?" John asked. "Thanks."

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes never straying from the screen. "Don't thank me. She stopped on her own."

"Well I see you got her into her pajamas." 

Sherlock shrugged again.

John picked up Fiona and placed her in the crib on her back, pressing a soft kiss to her pale forehead. He sat down on the bed and peered over at Sherlock's phone. Sherlock tugged it close to his chest so John couldn't see the screen. "Do you mind, John?"

"Who are you texting?"

Sherlock slid the phone into his shirt pocket. "Mycroft. Just checking in on the whole _parent_ situation. Which is fine."

"Fine, fine. Someone's testy." John yawned loudly, pulling back the quilt so he could lay down. "Well, I'm going to sleep, so text all you want."

Sherlock stared at John intently as the doctor settled his head on the pillow. Used to Sherlock's strange behavior, John ignored him and closed his eyes, but soon realized that he could _feel_ Sherlock's gaze boring into him. John looked up at Sherlock, who sure enough was still staring.

"What is it?" he asked. "Have I got something on my face?" A horrific thought struck him. "Did you put drugs in my toothpaste or something?"

"I... no." Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed slightly. "Just... thank you for bearing with me today."

John laughed quietly. "Sherlock. Don't get sappy on me now." He reached across and squeezed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock didn't smile back, but he did return the squeeze. John let go and closed his eyes again, suddenly astonished by how exhausted he felt after doing nothing all day. It seemed like a while before Sherlock finally got up to turn the lights out, and John soon drifted off after he felt Sherlock lay down next to him.

 

John's dreams were filled with images of Mary. She was coming to take Fiona from him, dressed in her wedding gown. These scenes mixed with his typical war nightmares, gunfire and screams, men with bloody clothes and gaping wounds. 

"John?" he heard a voice say. It seemed out of place among the other dream sounds. John thought it might be Sherlock's voice.

John was suddenly in a large ballroom with arched ceilings and golden walls, empty except for him.

"John, please forgive me." John twirled around. It was definitely Sherlock's voice, but there was no one else there. John was alone. Alone. He was sure of it! John began running to the other side of the ballroom, trying to get outside, but he suddenly couldn't find any doors. He could hear Fiona crying from the other side of the walls. Oh God! Mary had Fiona!

"Fiona!" he shouted, his hands scrabbling against the golden walls, cold and metallic under his touch. "Sherlock!"

John felt the soft ghost of a kiss on his forehead. Immediately, the dream world fell away into blackness, and he slept soundly.

 

When he awoke in the middle of the night, Sherlock was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really want to finish up the next chapter, but it's getting ridiculously late and I want to be able to do it justice. Expect it tomorrow, I hope?


	24. A Sudden Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Very brief mention of past suicidal thoughts. Violence, shooty-ness, badassery.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

"Sherlock!" John shouted. He turned on the light, his eyes darting around frantically for some sign of the detective. "Sherlock!" Hearing her father's desperate shout, Fiona began to cry.

The rational part of John's mind argued that Sherlock could simply be in the bathroom, or downstairs, but John knew--he _knew_ \--that Sherlock had left Sally Donovan's house. John could feel Sherlock's absence in the pits of his soul, as sharply as he had for those two long, horrible years, those two awful, fateful years, when John had been so close so many times to just giving up. And then Mary, and some hope of happiness. Not just sex but love, at least he had thought. Lies. All lies. John suddenly realized that since his first meeting with Sherlock at Bart's, he'd never had a chance of being happy without the puzzling man, the infuriating man, the most important man that there had ever been.

Despite Sally's claim of her sleeping deeply, she threw open the door. "Where has he gone?" Despite her disheveled appearance, John could tell that she was in police mode, her eyes bright and alert.

"I don't know." John clenched the back of his head. "I don't know."

John tried calling Sherlock, but there was no answer. He swore and picked up his wallet and keys, then as an afterthought, produced his gun from his suitcase. "I'm going out to find him. Sally, can you please stay here with Fiona? Please?"

Sally looked as if she was about to make some comment about John's being sexist, leaving her with the baby while he went to save the day, but she stopped herself and nodded. "I'll call Lestrade."

"Thank you." John dropped his keys, bent to pick them up... Wait. He fumbled through them. There was the key to the car, the key to Baker Street that Sherlock had never asked him to give back, the key to the office. But no house key. No house key.

"He's gone to my house," John said. "He's probably gone to meet Mary. Sally, tell Lestrade!"

He sprinted downstairs and out the door without waiting for her to respond.

 

John wanted to run the whole way there, but of course that was impossible, so he hailed the first cab he found on the main street and fretted in the backseat. Snow sprinkled down gently as if it didn't realize there was an emergency. John repeatedly tried to call Sherlock to no avail. He hesitated, five minutes away from the house, then dialed Mary's number. One ring. Two rings.

She picked up. "John?"

"Is Sherlock with you?" John demanded.

"John..."

"Tell me, Mary! Is Sherlock with you?"

"He is," she said calmly, then paused. "Where are you, John?"

John froze when he heard a familiar deep voice say something in the background. Definitely Sherlock.

"Mary," John said hurriedly. "I'm coming to talk to you so we can work this out. You're right, Mary. Fiona needs her mother. I can't take care of her on my own."

John heard Mary's contemptuous laugh, "I wish that were the case, but I don't believe you. You must think I'm stupid."

"No, Mary, it's true. Fiona is--Mary, she's so beautiful, and so fragile and precious and she's _ours_. I've been trying to be a good father, but it's not enough. She needs you." John saw the house approaching and tapped the back of the cabbie's seat, offering him a few bills. "She's with me now. We want to see you."

"You're bringing her _with_ you?" Mary shrieked as John sprinted up the frozen grass, hanging up on her. Lights from the living room shone through the windows.

He flung open the front door. Mary and Sherlock looked at him in bewilderment. Mary still held her phone to her face.

"John!" they said simultaneously.

Mary was wearing her red pea-coat, Sherlock his black one. They stood at opposite ends of the living room like pawns in a demented chess set, red and black, blond and dark, short and tall.

"Where is Fiona?" Mary asked. John realized with a sick lurch that she was holding a gun in her pocket. The outline of it was indistinguishable.

"I didn't bring her. You're mad to think I would." John edged toward where Sherlock was standing, wanting to know if he was all right. Sherlock kept his pale eyes fixed on Mary.

"Why the hell did you come here?" he whispered to Sherlock. Mary glared at them.

"She was threatening you," Sherlock hissed. "She knew where we were staying. It was the only way."

"So your texts..." He trailed off, then addressed his wife. "What do you want, Mary?"

Her expression was cold. "All I wanted was for us to be a family."

"You destroyed any possibility of that when you shot Sherlock," John growled.

"No," Mary said. She sniffed, but her eyes were dry. "I destroyed it when I failed to kill Sherlock."

The words hit John like a punch. He had known, but hearing her admit it was a new kind of hurt.

Mary continued, "Now I'm just finishing the job before I head to Bermuda. I hear it's nice, thought I'd see for myself." Mary shook her head. "Oh, John, I'm sorry. I truly am. But I thought it wouldn't have mattered if Sherlock died as long as you never found out that I did it. We could have been happy, just the two of us and Fiona." She pulled the gun out of her pocket and wagged it at Sherlock. "But _you_ just had to go and live, you bastard! I should have fucking shot you until I ran out of bullets."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Moriarty would have hunted you down and killed _you_ if you had killed me. Listen to yourself, Mary."

"Then at least I would have died with John loving me!" she snapped, then sighed bitterly. "When did I become this sort of woman, fawning over a man like your friend Molly? It's sick. John, you seem to bring out the worst in people."

"That is not true," Sherlock said swiftly. "Put down the gun, Mary."

The three of them froze when they heard police sirens from a few miles away, coming closer.

"No," Mary spat. Her body shook but she took aim in a swift movement.

Before any shot was fired, John felt a silent bomb go off in his head, filling his vision with white, then bringing everything into sharp relief. He saw Mary's finger pressing down on the trigger as if in slow motion, felt himself lunge forward to push aside Sherlock while simultaneously reaching for his own gun and firing return shots: one, two, three. Incredible pain as Mary's bullet lodged into his shoulder just inches from his other gunshot wound. He sank to the floor, saw Mary already lying there with blood running down her face, eyes open wide.

The cry from Sherlock was unlike anything John had ever heard. _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock are you okay?_ Through the cacophony of pain John felt Sherlock's hands press against his shoulder, over the wound, his long white fingers coated in John's blood. John blinked rapidly, feeling the floor tilt, knowing soon he would be unconscious. _Sherlock tell me you're okay Sherlock._

Sherlock was shouting, but not at John, at Mary. _She's dead_ , John wanted to tell Sherlock, but he couldn't muster the energy to even keep his eyes open. _It's okay sleep John Sherlock is safe you can sleep_.

"I would have strangled you if you had killed him! I would have torn you apart! No one can hurt John, no one!" Sherlock was sobbing now. Police sirens were everywhere, lights sparkling all over John's vision. Sherlock hissed violently between sobs, "He is the only person... I have ever loved... in my life."

 _Me too me too me too._ John felt the blackness eating away at him, and finally could do nothing but succumb to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you hear the shippers sing?  
> Singing a song of lovelorn men?  
> It is the music of a fandom  
> Who won't be denied again!


	25. Time for You and Time for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the gosh-darned feels!

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes  
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes  
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening  
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,  
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,  
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               
And seeing that it was a soft October night  
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

John woke up feeling really. damn. good. His vision was misty, but he could feel the slight prick of a morphine drip in his arm. Ah. So that explained it. Hmm, maybe he should get shot more often if the drugs felt this terrific. However, now that his body was awakening, a dull throb emerged from his shoulder that threatened to develop into something more.

Wait a minute. He'd been shot?

John sluggishly opened his eyes all the way. He was alone in a hospital room, that much he could tell. Everything smelled antiseptic and plastic. He glanced up at the heart monitor humming merrily above the bed. There were cards and flowers littering the table nearest the window. A balloon. A teddy bear.

_Mary, the way her face had looked as she lay dead on the floor of their home, the blood running down from her forehead onto the carpet of the living room. Dead Mary Mary dead Mary is dead._

He was surprised that no stab of pain came with the memory.

_He killed his wife. The mother of his child, the woman he'd held in his arms. John Watson shot his wife until she died._

No response. The lack of emotion made John feel queasy. Was he turning into a sociopath, too? And speaking of self-proclaimed sociopaths, where was Sherlock?

_The only person I have ever loved in my life_.

Had he really said that? John felt his consciousness fraying again and struggled to maintain his grasp on reality. _Stay awake John stay awake stay awake where is Sherlock stay awake_.

It was no use. By the time Sherlock returned to the room with a coffee, John was snoring softly into the crook of his arm.

 

The second time John awoke, it was in a rush of pain. He groaned loudly.

"Good morning." A female voice.

John looked up into the face of a nurse. She smiled at him. "How are you feeling today, John?"

"Terrible." His voice cracked.

"Would you like us to increase the morphine dose?"

"No. I need to think straight." John glanced around, seeing the table full of even more gifts and cards.  His heart leapt when he saw Sherlock curled up on a hard plastic chair with his curly head on his knees, asleep.

The nurse followed John's gaze. "He gets here first thing in the morning, and we can't get him to leave until visiting hours are over," she said.

"What... How many days have I been here?" John croaked.

"Let's see. I wasn't working when you were admitted. Three, I believe." The nurse checked the chart at the foot of the bed. "Yeah, three."

John asked for water and when she brought it, he downed the cup in seconds. "I don't know if you have any idea, but who is taking care of my daughter?"

The nurse thought about it for a moment. "Your friend mentioned something about your sister, I think. Want me to wake him up and ask?"

John shook his head. The nurse left, and John spent a while just staring at Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to wake up more than anything, yet he was almost dreading the conversation that would follow. They had too much to talk about, far too much. Had Sherlock's declaration last night--no, it had been three days ago--Had Sherlock's declaration three days ago been the product of fear? Had it been genuine? Did Sherlock even want him to remember it? John didn't know, but he knew what he hoped. Sherlock had planted a seed in John's heart the night they caught the cabbie so long ago, a seed he ignored that had slowly germinated and had grown into a pathetic plant that was often trampled, but still there. Ignored, but always there.

Mary had suspected that John was bisexual, he thought. He remembered a rather awkward inquiry before Sherlock's rise from the dead, when John assured her that he had never been attracted to Sherlock, not at all. To John's knowledge, Mary never knew that the only man he'd ever kissed had been James Sholto, and that was years and years ago. He'd never gone any further than that with a man, which was fine. Women had been enough.

But Sherlock, well.... John thought that he might have entertained the notion of being with Sherlock if Sherlock hadn't crushed his hopes at their first dinner together. Married to his work? Clearly not interested in John. Fine, then, fine. He'd smothered his attraction since then, but in his unconscious there had always been that growing seed...

John swallowed. Perhaps Sherlock had just meant that he loved him as a friend. They'd both said as much before. Well, John thought, if that was the case, then fine. He would accept whatever kind of affection Sherlock gave him, because he _yes admit it_ loved Sherlock and that was all there was to it. John nodded to himself, watching Sherlock sleep, and eventually fell back to sleep himself.

 

A pair of pale blue eyes were hovering over him when John awoke for the third time.

John yelped slightly, startled out of his grogginess even as his brain registered that it was just Sherlock sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Sorry to scare you."

"Sherlock... Where's Fiona?" John asked. He looked out the window to see the sun beginning to set. Had he really slept all day again? And how long had Sherlock been staring at him like that?

"With Harry and Clara in Kent," Sherlock confirmed. "At Clara's cousins' house. Mycroft had some of his people escort her there, and I've talked to Harry on the phone since then. Fiona is doing fine."

John nodded, suddenly feeling awkward.

"Are you," Sherlock began, then frowned. "Are you _okay_?"

John sighed. "Physically or psychologically?"

"Both."

John considered it. "Yes. I think so. The shoulder hurts like hell, but I'll live. And as for Mary..." The name felt thick in his mouth. "I did what I had to do." He glanced up at Sherlock. "She was trying to kill you."

Sherlock's face fell. "I shouldn't have gone, John. I'm so sorry. But she started texting me. She knew we were at Donovan's, she said, and she was going to take the baby. John, I just couldn't let her hurt you or Fiona. I thought maybe I could reason with her, but you can't reason with people like Mary and Moriarty. I realize that now. I thought I'd be able to shoot her if she tried to attack me, but I couldn't do it, especially when you came in. I just looked at her face and saw Fiona."

John couldn't conceal his astonishment. "You couldn't shoot her because of Fiona?" he repeated, bewildered.

Sherlock twitched. "A surprising show of sentiment, I realize, but I... I've never been close to a child myself, obviously, and... I don't know, John. Something's wrong with me."

John laughed humorlessly. "I think that means you're human, Sherlock. I'm the one with something wrong with me. I killed her and didn't even think of Fiona when I did it. What kind of awful father does that make me, eh?"

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "She was a threat to Fiona. You did the right thing. I just let emotions cloud my mind." He looked up at John discreetly through his lashes. "Like I've said before, you have the tendency to make me prone to sentiment."

"And apparently I'm turning into you." John snorted. "What a pair we make."

John regretted his wording, especially when Sherlock's face turned a slight shade of pink.

"Sherlock," he started at the same time Sherlock said, "John."

They both stopped.

"Listen," John said. "I... I don't know if you want to talk about this, but, well." _Oh God what was he doing he couldn't do this bad timing bad timing abort abort._

"I meant it." Sherlock looked him full in the eyes, and John wanted to look away, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact.

"You meant it when you said..."

"Every word."

John wanted to let it go at that, make a joke, but no, no, not after all this time. He had to clarify, make sure they understood each other completely.

"So," John continued, his voice climbing octaves. "You..."

Sherlock's words came out painfully slowly. "Yes, John. I love you. In every way."

Ah. So there it was.

John rubbed the sheet on his bed with his fingers, now focusing his eyes on his hands, the walls, anywhere but Sherlock's. "I, er, also... love you... as well."

Sherlock moved to sit on the edge of John's bed, forcing John to look at him. They still weren't touching, but John's skin tingled.

"For how long?" Sherlock whispered.

John exhaled. "For far too long. What about you?"

"Same here." Sherlock's eyes were moist, and John felt hot tears welling up in his own eyes.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he said, then looped his good arm around Sherlock and pulled him forward until their faces were millimeters apart.

They breathed into each other's mouths, their tears wetting each other's faces.

It was Sherlock who made the first, tentative advance. His soft lips brushed against John's dry ones, and John instantly knew that as long as he lived he would never, ever get tired of this.

Years of longing poured themselves into the kiss. Sherlock wasn't very skilled, and his breath tasted like cigarettes and coffee, but right now John thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Eventually Sherlock, whose legs were still awkwardly hanging over the side of the bed, broke the kiss and eased himself so that he was lying on top of John but avoiding pressure on his shoulder. Their faces were flushed and wet with tears.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered into his ear.

"I love you, too," John replied. He also knew that he would never, ever get tired of saying that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I made even myself feel awkward with those love confessions. Hoo boy. Hope they were worth it!


	26. And We Drown

Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening is spread out against the sky  


-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

They were forced to leave the hospital and move to a safer location the next day, even though John complained that he needed his rest. He was looking better, though, more color in his face, his eyes less glassy when his painkillers wore off. Sherlock told himself it was because the hospital staff had let him spend the night curled up next to John.

"You've been sleeping for days," Sherlock said dismissively, gathering John's cards into a pile. "After I was shot, I went home right away."

"You did not go home right away, Sherlock. And you had to be taken back to hospital after you ran off."

Sherlock ignored this. "Who sent you a teddy bear? Are you seven? Ah, Harry. Anyway, Mycroft is getting anxious, and so am I, though apparently we are the only ones. Lestrade went back to work after the night you were shot."

"He what? You never told me that, Sherlock." John had discarded his hospital robe and was tenderly pulling on a button-up shirt.

"He said he couldn't stand hiding anymore because nothing is happening. He doesn't think anyone's in any danger. Molly and Mrs. Hudson have gone back to their homes as well. And the worst part is that Lestrade is right, John. Nothing _is_ happening.  I'm worried. People are starting to believe that Moriarty isn't back."

John grimaced, sitting on the bed. "And you're absolutely sure he is, right, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft thinks so. Why is that not good enough for anyone anymore?" Sherlock dug around in his bag and produced a piece of paper. "Here, John. This is a record of the text messages sent to and from Mary's phone. If they aren't from Moriarty, then who sent them?"

John's eyes scanned the paper for a few minutes. "Jesus." He looked up, his mouth a hard line. "He talks like Moriarty, that's for sure. What is with this Beatrice shit?"

Sherlock shrugged and grabbed the paper. "Do you believe me now?"

John ran a brush a few times over his graying hair. "Did they ever retrieve his body from up there on Bart's?"

Now Sherlock hesitated. He spent some time arranging John's gifts in his suitcase. "I asked Molly if she had seen Moriarty's body. She said yes, there had been a body that looked like 'Jim from IT' in the mortuary. However, I will not for one instant underestimate Moriarty's ability to deceive."

John crossed his arms and looked up at Sherlock. "Well, you know that I'm with you no matter what, Sherlock. If you think he's back, then I think so, too." He suddenly smirked. "Nice jewelry."

He was looking at Sherlock's lapel pin. Sherlock frowned. "It was a gift from Mycroft."

John grinned. "It's 'blingy.' Suits you. What are those, sapphires?"

"Stay focused, John."

John sighed. "All right. So where to next? We aren't going back to Sally's, are we? I don't know if I can stand more cats and bad pasta."

"Of course not." Sherlock's phone rang. He groaned dramatically and answered it. "What is it, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock. I need to speak to John."

"To John? Why?"

"Sherlock, please."

"All right... He's right here. One moment."

Sherlock's eyebrows crinkled and he extended the phone to John. "He wants to talk to you."

John accepted the phone with hesitation. "Er, hello?"

Sherlock watched John's face intently, for something in Mycroft's voice had worried him very much. John looked confused at first, his mouth parted. Then, every drop of blood seemed to drain from him. "Oh, God, no," John said.

John dropped the phone and covered his face in his hands. Sherlock snatched the phone from the bed and shouted, "What is it, Mycroft? What has happened?"

"Sherlock, Fiona is missing," Mycroft said. "Someone took her from the house in Kent while the others were sleeping."

Sherlock stood shaking, rage coursing through his veins. "You were supposed to keep her safe!" he roared.

"We had three people keeping surveillance on the house. All of them were shot dead via sniper rifle. Please, Sherlock, make John understand how sorry I am. I didn't know."

"You didn't know what, Mycroft?" Sherlock slammed the phone to the ground. The back of it popped off and skittered across the floor.

"John," Sherlock gasped. John was sobbing helplessly, hands still over his face. Sherlock engulfed him in a hug, resting his chin on top of John's head. John shook beneath him.

"We can never be happy, Sherlock," he choked out. "What did I do wrong?"

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, rubbing John's back, trying to hide his own desperation. "We will find her, John. I swear to you. We will find her."

 

* * *

* * *

 Mycroft Holmes set down the dead receiver of the antique telephone on his desk. He stared out the window of his study. It had begun to snow heavily from the gray skies, and a layer of white was piling up on the roads outside. He shivered despite the heat from the crackling fireplace. From inside his top desk drawer Mycroft pulled out a small velvet ring box that was now empty. He turned it over in his hands again and again... again and again... again and again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! (But not really.)
> 
> This is the end of the first half of the story. Subscribe to me if you want to figure out what happens next! I will be starting the sequel very soon, I hope.
> 
> *1950s movie narrator voice*  
> Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion, in which we'll possibly answer questions such as:  
> -What the hey is going on with Mycroft?  
> -Is baby Fiona actually the ogre princess from Shrek?  
> -Who cries after sex, John or Sherlock?  
> -How much angst can a Johnlocker angst if a Johnlocker angsted that angst?  
> -And much much more!
> 
> On a serious note, thanks for all of the support! You guys rock my socks.


End file.
